


The Roman and the She-Wolf

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [9]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Canon/Original Character Relationships, Episode 7 - Penguin's Umbrella, F/M, Family Dynamics, Gen, family dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-23
Updated: 2015-08-23
Packaged: 2018-04-16 20:29:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4639140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There are many battles you are meant to fight, James." She whispers. "But this is not one of them."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Roman and the She-Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Set during the ending of "Penguin's Umbrella" and immediately following the end of "Swan Song". Nothing too much to say about this one, other than I think I'm going to have fun delving deeper into the tangled mess that is Iris' family tree. Probably too much fun. Please enjoy! :)

She awakens to the pale light of early morning, half-covered and half-exposed, naked. It’s cold. Her body aches, there are bruises she can feel even if not yet see, her hair is a heavy and disheveled mass down her back and against her neck, and her exhaustion from a truly sleepless night weighs her eyelids. Yet even amongst the dull throb of pain, the kind that tells her beyond any doubt her virginity is lost, she feels the thrumming need to be touched again, and again, and again.

Victor is seated at the mattress edge, fully dressed, with the phone at his ear, listening in silence. She knows who must be on the other end of the call, and suspects she knows why. Intellectually, if she is correct, she also knows now is the time to run, to escape, to flee, to do something. Anything, but stay here. That would be the intellectual thing to do, for the sake of self-preservation.

She shifts upright, the sheets falling neglected, and crawls forward until her chest is flush to his clothed back and her arms are tight around him. His free hand settles over hers, thumb stroking slowly in a soothing gesture. She sighs, sets her cheek to his shoulder, and waits for the call to end. When it does, she finds her voice, though it’s nothing above a whisper. “Do not.” Her fingers curl a little tighter against his. “Please, my tiger. Not now.”

He stays silent, thumb still brushing her knuckles. “Victor, please.” She tries again. “It will kill me if you let go. After all this time…do not let me go. Please.”

“And what will that solve?” he finally says, though without the anger she was expecting. She’d almost prefer he did snap at her; his neutrality is often more concerning than a display of displeasure. “Your dearly devoted detective already thinks you are a broken little doll. I keep you here, you’re nothing but a captive.”

“But I am not.” She protests, clutching tighter, “I am _yours_. I gave myself to you, Victor. I do not want to be anywhere else. I do not want anyone else. _I want you_.”

She feels the sharp intake of breath, and the way his hand tightens its grip. But then it fades, and loosens, and he slowly starts to stand. Her arms tighten in response, acting before thinking and not caring for the consequences, and jerk him backwards. He never makes it to his feet, but instead drops back to the bed with her unexpected gesture, and she quickly settles herself over him. Blue eyes darken almost immediately at the sight, her pale skin and scars illuminated in the morning light and once more within reach, and she sees hunger resurface in his gaze.

She rests both hands on his face, gaze sharp, determined to be unmoved by his desire. “How much must I beg?” she demands. “Why are you so willing to release me?”

“Willing?” His eyes flash. “The only thing I am _willing_ to do is put a bullet between Jim Gordon’s eyes, _after_ I have reduced him to a hollow shell and bled him dry. He thinks you need him, that you want him in your life—”

“I want _you_.” She repeats, grabbing his hand and pressing it to her chest, to her heart. “I need _you_. You raised me, Victor. Not him. _You_.”

Silence again; his fingers slowly brush over the skin, eyes following each motion, expression unreadable. She doesn’t like being unable to read him, as much as she knows he despises being locked out of her thoughts. Her tongue burns with questions, a demand to know his thoughts, but she swallows it back.

And then he releases a measured breath and looks back at her. “Show him.”

When she says nothing, he sits upright and splays his hand wide across her curves. “Show him, Iris. You said it yourself, last night—I have no use for a docile lamb fit for slaughter. Be my mate, the one who takes what she wants when she wants. Want me.”

“I do.”

“Then show him.” He hisses dangerously. “Show him how you burn and melt when I touch you. Show him you want the demon of Gotham’s underground in your arms, in your bed, _inside your body_. Show him you want me, and if he tries to take you away again,” his voice lowers to an animal’s growl, eyes blazing with unspoken threats, “he will lose more than his hands.”

She stays quiet for a moment more. It’s not an idle threat. It’s not even a _threat_. If given the chance, Victor will torture James in ways she dare not even consider, just to repay an old insult. And she doesn’t want James to suffer, not like that. He is a good man, a true hero when there are few, so very few left in Gotham. He is not _her_ hero, but he could be the city’s.

“Let me go myself.” She finally murmurs. His response is a low growl, but she isn’t swayed. “If you accompany me, I become a prisoner bound to her captor and manipulated into compliance. Do not make me the little lamb caught in your jaws, my tiger.”

Her hips shift, pointedly, and rock slowly against his. “Let me go. Let me handle this myself. And then I will be as meek and submissive as you could ever want.”

“You keep _that_ up,” he groans quietly, hips meeting her halfway, “and damned if you’ll leave this room ever again.”

She smiles a little. “Say the words, my tiger.”

Victor growls, yet again, and seizes her hips before sitting upright. “Fine. Go.” One hand trails deliberately down her spine. “But once it’s done…”

She cuts him off, leaning forward and setting warm lips to his jaw, lingering a moment longer than necessary. “Find me again, my tiger.” She whispers. “Find me again.”

***

Before the study doors are even open, she can hear Detective Bullock’s voice from the other side, lamenting how embarrassing the situation is, how they—she can only presume James is there with him—could have gone out like heroes and instead are now going to be fish bait. Her limbs tighten as her mind processes, dissects, and comprehends what the words mean, and what must be waiting on the other side of those doors.

She takes a slow, careful breath. She won’t be afraid, not right now, not after last night. She spoke truthfully, when she said she gave herself to him, to her tiger. She may not be his one and only. She may never be his one and only, but last night he was hers, only hers, and she bears the bruises with pride.

When the doors are opened and she steps inside, James immediately stands up. His expression is both relieved and still terrified, eyes darting over her shoulder as though he’s looking for someone, then dropping to her shoulders and neck, to the bruises, with eyes frantic, and the realization is cold and sinks like lead into her stomach. Don Falcone must have told him the truth. Told him about how she and Victor met… _why_ they met in the first place, what he was sent to do to her. He must have been told everything. 

She suddenly wants to cover the marks, but, no, she doesn’t, because that implies shame, and she’s not ashamed. She wants to tell James it’s not what it seems, but that’s equally distasteful, and she has no choice but to stand in place and wish he would stop looking at her and the bruises she bears while making all manner of assumptions and reaching conclusions in his head. She knows James is making everything seem black and white when it’s so many different shades of grey and anything but simple. She knows he is looking at her face and finding something that maybe looks like fear or discomfort, because it’s easier to see that than to see the way she calm and collected and unashamed of every mark Victor left on her skin.

“I’m sorry for keeping her overnight, Jim.” Don Falcone says, “It was rather late when we finished and I couldn’t, in good conscience, send her out in the cold alone.” He gestures forward. “Come here, my dear.”

She complies, but though James reaches out for her, she knows that wasn’t Falcone’s intention, and she keeps walking forward until she reaches the elder’s side. He rests a warm hand to her shoulder, smiling affectionately at her once more, then redirecting attention to James’ confused face. “Forgive me, Jim. I can’t quite help myself. Iris is her grandmother’s reflection, after all. Fond memories.”

The confusion only grows; she knows Don Falcone expected this, because he doesn’t look surprised, more likely planned and anticipated it. Her suspicions are confirmed when he promptly proceeds into his next statement. “Oh, did I forget to mention it? My apologies. Iris’ grandmother, Sylvia, was my younger sister. She and Audrey DeLaine solidified the rapport between our clans, years ago. Marcus, as I’ve already expressed, was quite a disappointment. But Iris…”

He kisses the top of her head, lightly, not to make an unnecessary scene but as a genuine gesture, and nods a bit. “Iris is proof there may yet be hope for the family.”

She can feel James’ confusion shift from Falcone to her; she sees the puzzle pieces fitting together in his mind. He’s known bits and pieces of her family’s sordid and less-than-reputable history, but now he has more pieces. Now, he has more reason to keep her away from this place, from Don Falcone, _from Victor_ …

In the time it takes her to blink, Falcone’s attention is back on James and Detective Bullock, one arm folded across his chest and the other cupping a hand over his mouth in a thoughtful gesture. In the silence that follows, she feels James’ eyes lingering upon her, questioning and searching for answers she cannot give. There is much he doesn’t understand, and she cannot help but think it is better he doesn’t know the complete and full history, the tangled web that is her family tree. It is difficult enough for her to remember, let alone try and explain. Too many memories, of loved ones coming and going, leaving only brushing strokes upon the canvas of her childhood, some never a lasting impression, others an imprint so deep it feels, even now, like a brand on her soul.

Two short minutes pass, and then Don Falcone sighs and shakes his head. “Now, you. _What_ am I going to do with you?” he ponders aloud. “By all rights, you need to die.”

She keeps her expression neutral, calm and collected, refusing to let the ripple of anxiety show. Yes, by the rights and laws of the Falcone clan, James needs to die for his defiance and brazen behavior. But he is a good man, a man trying to restore this city from its downward spiral, and while she doubts it can ever truly be saved, she knows James will never stop trying. And she knows Don Falcone loves this city, and he doesn’t want to see it fall apart.

“He took me in, Don Falcone.” Iris whispers, summoning her courage, her strength, the wolf’s power and grace and spirit from the depths of her soul. “He took me in when no one else would.” 

James did not raise her, but he did take her in, and she will not be ungrateful for that. Victor did indeed raise her, but never could he have truly taken her in, not as James did. Time and circumstances did not allow for it, not then. Now is a different story; now, they have changed things between them. But _now_ is not what matters most. The past is at the root of her imploring argument for James’ life.

“You spoke of my grandfather with respect last night.” She continues, ignoring the warning look James is giving her and the way Detective Bullock is muttering something about her not knowing when to stay silent. “I saw it in your eyes. You respected him, perhaps more than you have ever respected anyone in this life. That is the only reason you allowed my grandmother—your sister—to marry him. You respected the rules he held within the clan.”

She takes a careful step forward. “Do you remember, Don Falcone? The greatest rule my grandfather had within the clan?” Without waiting for him to answer, she dares to press on. “Family is everything. Family is above all else. Do you not believe, then, he would have spared indiscretions and offenses, if the man committing them had done his best to protect the last little wolf in the clan?”

Her words strike a chord in the mafia don; she sees it in the way his gaze changes, in the way the lines etched within his features fade and his expression softens with affection. He is seeing her grandmother, his sister, once again. She feels a great sense of pride, knowing that as he looks upon her, he sees the tall and graceful woman she met once—only once, but it remains one of her sweetest memories—and his heart is moved because of it.

“Yes,” he finally says, “yes, I believe he would have.”

He looks back at James, then at her, and back to James with a fond little smile. “You’ve done well with her, Jim.” He declares, nodding at her, and she chooses to remain silent and not correct him, because now really isn’t the time to reveal the truth behind her upbringing and who was really responsible for it. “She’s strong, resolved. Doesn’t bow down or break.” His tone becomes more amused as he adds, “Picks fights she should and some she shouldn’t, but still manages to end up on top.”

Detective Bullock makes a dry comment that sounds very much like, “Understatement of the year.” She has to resist the urge to kick him where it would count.

Don Falcone looks at her again, then back at James; then, more seriously this time, finishes in a low whisper. “She certainly didn’t get that from Marcus. But she did get it from my sister. So, perhaps, maybe even more so than anyone else,” his gaze grows solemn as he ponders his next words, “Gotham needs _her_. Living proof that something can be born out of a wasteland. Be born, grow, and thrive.”

She understands the implication, hears the thing unsaid, and slowly nods. “This is my home, Don Falcone,” she murmurs, “I am not going anywhere.”

He will hear her words and interpret one way, just as James and Detective Bullock will, and all she can do is know, in silence, the way her words were meant to be heard, nothing less. Victor is her home. Not Gotham. She came back for Victor, not this dying and decaying spit of concrete and corruption and despair. She came back for her tiger, just as he came back for her.

Falcone’s smile returns with another nod. “I’m glad to hear it.” He looks back at the other two men. “Now, go. All of you. Before I change my mind.” 

The moment the words leave his lips, her arm is taken by James; he pulls her back to his side and then stand between her and Falcone. “What’s the catch?”

She takes three steps back, for a bit of personal space, only to have Detective Bullock catch her with one arm around the shoulders, all while urging James to not waste time haggling and just leave. James, predictably, doesn’t budge, and repeats his question.

“No catch.” Falcone reassures. “I just want you to think about what I said. Remember who the real enemy is in this city. Maybe it will help you pick your fights a little better.”

Then, as an afterthought, he nods over James’ shoulder, at her, and adds, “And keep a close eye on her, Jim.” He smiles again, almost as a grandparent would, she supposes, or something equivalent. “She’s young, smart, strong, and beautiful. Men look for that in a woman. All sorts of men.”

She really hates the way he phrases that comment. For all that she is growing fond—or at least, tolerant of his attempt at familial affection, Don Falcone doesn’t know her, not yet, perhaps not ever. She hears the unspoken, the unsaid, and every other implication in between, and she despises them. She doesn’t need to be protected. She doesn’t need to be looked after and be directed from one potential mate to another. She is a woman now. She has a woman’s body, and she knows a woman’s desire and lust and need for a man, in every possible way, and she has felt the sheer and overwhelming completion at having her tiger inside her body, touching her, kissing and marking her skin, being desired and wanted for the woman she is, _not_ protected and tended to like a child.

“C’mon, kid,” Detective Bullock is saying, already nudging her towards the door, “let’s get out of here.”

She follows, mostly because she doesn’t have a choice with his arm around her shoulders. The moment they exit the study, he drops his arm and makes for the door, and James promptly takes charge. He grasps her hand urgently, already pulling and moving forward with pause. “I told you, it wasn’t safe here. That’s why I needed you to get out of town.”

“James…”

“And what were you thinking, coming _here_?” he pulls a little more on her hand. “You put yourself right in Falcone’s hands, Iris!”

“James,”

“And Zsasz. _How_ could you not tell me about him?” his tone sounds agonized, and she would ordinarily feel a little guilty, if he weren’t ignoring her and trying to pull her out the door when she has no intentions of coming with him. “How could you walking right back into his hands? Never mind Falcone; Zsasz could have finished what he’d started if we hadn’t—”

“ _James!_ ”

The outburst at least gets his attention, as does the way she quickly pulls her hand free. “James,” she continues again, softer, “I wish you would follow Don Falcone’s advice a little more diligently. There are fights you should fight, many of them, in fact. But this is not one of them.”

He sighs and reaches for her hand again. “We can debate this later. Let’s go.”

“No.” She steps back, to emphasize the point. “I am not leaving with you, James.”

“…what?” he stares at her in bewilderment, as though she’s mad, as though she’s lost her mind. Perhaps she has. “What do you…why… _why_? Why would you stay, Iris? If you stay here, Zsasz—”

“ _Victor_ ,” she says, tightly; she detests hearing him referred to by surname only, when his true name is far more fitting and elegant, “is many things and has likewise done many things to many people. Nearly everything he has done is…unspeakable, at best. But he would never hurt me.”

“How can you say that?” James tries to take her hand yet again, and when she keeps it away, his frown deepens. “Falcone told me everything, Iris. Zsasz was sent to _kill_ you.”

He says the words as though she’s forgotten a box cutter at her throat and a man she’d never met tell her to choose where he should cut, the choice ultimately coming down to how slowly she wanted to die. “Victor would never hurt me.” She repeats, calmly. “He raised me.”

She steps back again. “I came here to ensure your safety, James. Don Falcone has found it within himself to spare you, because you are a good man and the city needs you, and you took me in when no one else would. He is grateful, and moved, and he has spared you accordingly. I am glad for it. Now, please, go home and rest. No more heroics tonight.”

“Iris—”

“I will see you at work.” She turns on that final note and walks away. She hears Detective Bullock offer a few words of encouragement—or, at least, what she assumes he considers encouragement—before rounding the corner and finding Don Falcone staring out the window. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but it’s quite apparent he has overheard everything.

“Such a beautiful morning.” He declares cheerfully. “Perfect day for a walk in the garden, don’t you think, Iris?”

“Yes, Don Falcone.”

He nods. “Liza planted some roses a few weeks ago. You should go see if they’ve bloomed.”

“Thank you.” She murmurs. “I would like that, very much.”

The elder smiles at her. “I’m glad you’ll be staying, my dear. The house doesn’t feel quite as empty with you here.”

Nothing more is said. She is quite certain they will be having another conversation, sometime later, because she herself has admitted that she and Victor have a much deeper, far longer-lived relationship than anyone, to her knowledge, knew before this. Whether it will work in her favor or against her, she doesn’t yet know. But right now isn’t the time to find out.

She takes her leave and ventures outside; the air is cool and damp from earlier rain, and it smells clean and fresh around her. The manor is a world apart from the city itself, pure and untainted. It almost feels like a home.

The roses have indeed bloomed. Pink in one corner, yellow in the middle, and red to the far right corner. Seven each, a lucky number. Except for the red. Only six.

“Assumptions do not become you, Iris.” Victor says from behind her. “To say I will not love you because I do not want you, for instance…”

“And do you, truly?” she doesn’t make a point of looking at him, but instead keeps eyes on the flower gathering. He steps closer, a black imprint at the corner of her eye amongst lush green, and continues forward until he is but a short step away.

“I didn’t make myself clear last night?”

She huffs out an unamused laugh. “You wanted me to satisfy your body’s needs. No different than your _femmes de la nuit_.” 

One hand brushes a slow touch over the yellow rose. “Passion and fire in the night; cold and distant in the morning light. Perhaps that is what I need you to teach me now, Victor. To so easily rid myself of the need for you, as you do for me.”

The silence stings a little, but she says nothing, only keeps her eyes on the flower beneath her touch. Yellow roses seem a strange anomaly. Some find their uniqueness beautiful and desirable, the sun’s glow captured on flower petals. To her, yellow is the color of illness, of disease. An infected rose, terribly out of place and desperately trying to match the passionate hue of red and the blissful shade of pink.

A soft, silken sensation interrupts the thought; her eyes drop down and find the blossom of a red rose stroking her wrist, and Victor is seated behind her, fingers holding the clipped stem.

“Your skin is so soft, my sweet one.” He says, quietly. “So soft, and smooth, and warm,” he drags the rose up, playing for a moment at the inner elbow, then continuing upward, “so _alive_.”

She swallows back a soft gasp as he leans forward and kisses her shoulder. “All this time, I’ve tried to envision the perfect way to take you and still leave nothing less than perfection. But nothing was ever enough. To snap your neck,” he curls one hand around her throat, fingers caressing her pulse, “would leave a mark. Poison would taint the color of your skin. Anything else—bullet, knife—would ruin everything, leave ugliness where there once was beauty. Six months, I’ve tried to make sense of it all. And finally, last night, it did.”

The rose glides down her cheek, slow and sensual. She bites her lip, swallows back a moan, and tries to focus on his words. “You are my creation, Iris.” He breathes in her ear, warm against her skin. “My most perfect masterpiece. And you are more beautiful, more inspiring, more breathtaking alive than others are dead.”

She catches the sweet aroma of petals before he traces it below her jaw and down her throat. “Six months, I have had women in my bed, and they play submissive, docile, weak and wanting. I’d thought that was what I wanted. But I was wrong.”

The petals brush low at her breast, caressing in place of fingers and lips. “What you did last night…” his voice lowers, lips brushing her ear, and he sounds like he is in ecstasy just remembering it all, “There is no word for how beautiful you were, Iris. For how it felt to see you, watch you, _feel you_. And I will think of it, every time I watch you from afar or am reminded of you.”

“It need not be reduced to memory alone.” She murmurs. “Stay with me, and it can be reality.”

Her hand catches his, the one holding the rose, and brings both his hand and the rose once more to her breast, holding it close, watching his eyes widen just slightly at her brazen display, right here, in the morning light, without shame, where Don Falcone could easily see them. For a moment, she thinks he won’t indulge her, but then his eyes drop to her neckline and his lips are drawn inward in such a way that she knows the fantasy playing across his inner eye.

“I am the last wolf, Victor.” She whispers. “A she-wolf, and I neither share nor am shared. I have chosen my mate, my tiger, my one and only, and I do not want him. I need him. I need you. You are mine, I am yours, and heaven help any who try to change that.”


End file.
